ESCAPE
Sitting there in the murky dimness of the old mine, Dick Somers
struggled manfully against the anxiety which was making his heart throb
painfully. Ned Blake was pal and leader of the other boys, but to Dick
he was all this and much more. Not until this moment of terrible
suspense did Dick fully realize the depth of his feeling for his friend
and the shock of it brought a dry sob to his throat.
“Don’t take it so hard, Dick,” consoled Charlie Rogers in a voice that
was husky in spite of his effort to control it. “Shucks! Ned’s all
right. He’s a regular fish in the water! He can swim a couple of miles
without half trying, and when it comes to doing _under-water_ stunts—why
he can beat a muskrat!”
“The only thing I was really worrying about was that the car might jump
the track,” declared Tommy Beals in a cheerful tone, which was, however,
belied by the solemn expression of his plump countenance. “I know by the
way the cable acted that the old dump-wagon stayed on the rails and it’s
dollars to doughnuts she made the end of the tunnel right side up!”
“Sure she did!” Rogers exclaimed confidently, “and the instant Ned saw
light through the hole above him, why he started up. He thinks under
water—take it from me!”
Thus the talk went on, hope contending with fear, and as the minutes
ticked away, Dave Wilbur kept an anxious eye upon his watch. “The
fifteen minutes are up,” he announced after what had seemed an endless
wait. “Ned said it would take him that long, at least.”
Yet another full minute passed. Then there came a scraping sound on the
farther side of the door, which quickly swung open, disclosing the
dripping form of Ned Blake. The shout of relief and joy that burst from
four throats was promptly checked by Ned’s warning gesture.
“Keep quiet!” he cried. “Tumble up here! Quick! Bring my clothes!”
The boys obeyed without question, and as they passed through the door,
Ned closed it, replaced the heavy beam which had held it shut, and
hurried his companions to a hiding-place behind a pile of barrels.
“There’s no chance to get out yet,” he chattered, as he struggled into
his garments. “I had a narrow squeak of it. Latrobe and Slade were
coming through the gate in Dave’s flivver, just as I turned the corner
of the house. There was a truck right behind them. They’ll be here in a
minute. Lie low and don’t breathe!”
Tommy Beals had brought one of the lanterns, which was quickly
extinguished, and the boys had barely time to settle themselves in their
places of concealment when the stone slab in the foundation wall swung
back and the swarthy face of Latrobe appeared in the opening. A moment
he paused to listen intently, then crept into the cellar, followed by
Slugger Slade and the red-faced man whom Ned had recognized as Miller.
“They took both lanterns,” growled the leader, as he shot the rays of a
flashlight into the niche where lay the canvas and the coil of rope.
“Yeah, they had both lights burning when I was watching ’em monkeying
with the dump-car,” replied Slade. “They were too busy to notice me, so
I just swung the door on ’em and propped that beam against it,” and
Slade pointed to the heavy timber which still held the door shut.
“Well, maybe that was as good as you could have done,” was the grudging
reply. “The game’s up, but we’ll load what we’ve got and make our
get-away before anybody else comes snoopin’ around.”
“What’ll we do with these smart kids that butted in on our game and
ruined it?” snarled Miller.
“Leave ’em shut in the mine till somebody who wants ’em starts looking
for ’em,” was the cool answer. “They know too much about us and our
business, and the longer they stay shut up, why the more time we’ll have
to cover our tracks.”
“Their folks will probably start hunting for ’em today, but it may be a
week or more before anybody suspects where they are and finds how to get
’em out,” ventured Slade, uneasily. “They’d pretty near starve by that
time.”
“Let ’em starve,” snapped Latrobe. “It’ll learn ’em to mind their own
business and not gum up somebody else’s game. All right, Miller,” he
continued, “let’s get going.”
“Are you going to put out the bridge?” asked Slade.
“Sure,” answered Latrobe. “There’s no good leaving any more tracks than
we can help. Let ’em guess how we did the trick. Come on, Miller; you
and Slade get it out. We’ve no time to lose.”
From its place in the niche, the roll of dingy canvas was dragged to the
opening in the foundation wall and pushed outside. Latrobe and Miller
held one end of the cloth on the ground while Slade stepped onto it and
walked slowly forward kicking the roll ahead of him. In a very short
time he had laid a canvas walk, four feet wide, extending from the wall
of the house to the fringe of bushes, among which the truck could be
seen backing into position.
“That’s what Fatty and I heard flapping in the wind that night!” gasped
Charlie Rogers, as he watched the canvas rise and fall in the breeze.
“Yes, and that big misshapen thing we saw must have been a man walking
along that canvas with a case of bottles on his shoulder!” added Tommy.
“No wonder we never could find any foot tracks!”
“Nor wheel tracks either!” wheezed Dave. “They worked the same kind of
stunt for the truck at the entrance to the old road!”
“Sh! Keep still! They’re coming in again!” warned Ned.
The two men and Slade again crept through the opening into the cellar
and approached the door leading down to the mine. “You say there’s five
of ’em inside,” remarked Latrobe. “Are any of ’em scrappers?”
“Huh!” grunted Slade. “That fellow Blake is pretty strong and plenty
handy with his football stuff, and there’s a fat guy that might knock
you cold, if he jumped on you like he did me. The rest ain’t
heavy-weights, but I guess maybe they’d fight if you got ’em cornered.”
“Well, you go out and tell Casey to come down as soon as he gets the
truck in place,” decided Latrobe. “There’s no good taking chances of one
of ’em getting past us.”
Slade left the cellar and soon returned, accompanied by a burly
individual who carried a short cudgel in his hand. “What’s the matter?”
demanded the newcomer. “Can’t the three of you handle five boys? Open
that door,” he continued savagely. “Let me at ’em!”
“Easy there, Casey,” warned Latrobe. “I’m running this show. We don’t
want any broken heads unless it’s necessary, but if they try to rush
us—well, don’t let any of ’em get past, that’s all.”
As Slade removed the timber and opened the door a cautious crack,
Latrobe, with Miller and Casey at his elbow, peered through it into the
mine below. For a moment the growl of low-voiced talk came to the ears
of the boys where they crouched in their hiding-places; then Latrobe
flung the door wide and stepped through it onto the stairs. “Come on out
of there now!” he shouted. “Let’s have a look at you!” His shout went
echoing down the tunnel, but no other sound broke the stillness.
“They’re here all right,” declared Miller. “Look at that lantern
burning. They probably took the other light and went down into the
tunnel.”
“The dump-car is gone,” announced Slade. “Look how they hammered this
door trying to break it down!”
Latrobe directed his flashlight upon the battered door and examined it
carefully; then turning, he played the rays along the pile of boxes and
barrels that littered the cellar. Caution was one of Latrobe’s habits,
and to the frightened watchers it seemed that their very breathing must
be audible to his keen ears; but after a long moment of heart-breaking
suspense, he again turned and went clumping down the stairs followed by
the other three.
As the last form disappeared through the low doorway, Ned Blake crept
silently from his place behind the barrels. Dick Somers was at his elbow
and together they stole softly forward. A glance through the door showed
Latrobe, Miller, and Slade grouped at the foot of the stairs watching
Casey, who club in hand, strode down into the black mouth of the tunnel.
“That’s far enough, Casey,” commanded Latrobe. “Don’t let anybody get
past you while we’re lugging out the stuff.”
“Swing the door easy. I’ll handle the timber,” whispered Ned. “Careful.
Don’t make a sound!”
Inch by inch the door moved on its noiseless hinges, and when at last it
came to a stop, Ned dropped the heavy beam into place without a sound.
“Whew!” gasped Dick, who, now that the crisis was passed, had turned
suddenly weak and faint. “Let’s get out of here, Ned! I’m scared plumb
to death!”
Dick was not the only victim of this nervous reaction, amounting almost
to panic, that came with the sudden breaking of the strain to which the
boys had been subjected; and it was a pale-faced group that was
revealed, when Tommy Beals had, with trembling fingers, succeeded in
relighting his lantern. Following its gleam, the boys made their way to
the opening in the wall and emerged into the blinding sunlight of the
quiet morning.